


Eternal Sufferings of a Sidekick

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-02
Updated: 2006-09-06
Packaged: 2019-01-19 15:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12412581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Peter Pettigrew wasn't always an evil, twisted Judas figure; for most of his seven years at Hogwarts, he was loved. There ARE four Marauders, and this story focuses on the sufferings of the one most likely to be forgotten. Sirius, James, and Remus may be the stuff of legend, but Peter is unabashedly mortal. His story is the more interesting ...





	1. Requisite Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

It was raining when Peter Pettigrew arrived at King's Cross. Typically, Peter had managed to step in the only mud puddle outside the door of the station, and his shoe squelched with every step. The moisture was seeping into his sock, and it made him wriggle uncomfortably. Unfortunately, he was also dragging a cart with a large trunk, and trying to wriggle _and_ lug the cart after him at the same time was deceptively difficult. When Martin slowed down to go around a pole, Peter attempted to quickly switch the hand that he pulled the cart with – he stepped on his cloak, grabbed the cart, and promptly fell over. 

Martin heard the thump from behind him and turned around, scowling. "What –" he began, then noticed that Peter was vainly trying to pull the hem of his cloak out from under the wheel of the cart. Muttering, he roughly pulled Peter up from the ground, set the cart in front of him, and was off again.

Peter struggled to catch up, nearly falling again as his shoe let out the wettest squelch yet. He was incredibly small for his age, a small, sandy-haired boy with big blue eyes and a slightly hunted look. He wasn't anything special. Passersby who would have stared at the sight of a boy in a cloak over tattered jeans looked right through him, gazes sliding off as if they saw nothing at all. Peter had perfected his technique these last three years; it was the only way to ensure that the kids in his neighborhood didn't even think to ever stop him. He affected his normal, unassuming matter, and sprinted after Martin, who was now so far ahead that his back was receding into the distance. He stopped only to bundle up the edge of his cloak in his hand, holding it at his side so that it didn't hinder his step.

He wished he didn't have to wear the stupid cloak at all. Panting, he wheeled around a pole and stopped short, seeing Martin gazing at the wall that would be the platform. Peter remembered it well from when his father was alive. He and his father had made the trek here with Martin, Peter staring solemnly as Martin waved happily and disappeared through the barrier. Now that only his mother remained, sick in mind and body, Martin had to bring Peter here. And Martin didn't like it at all.

"Well," said Martin, staring straight ahead, "I guess this is it."

"Right," said Peter, trying to affect a jaunty posture and failing miserably. He looked around. No one that even looked remotely magical was in sight. But how would he know? The Pettigrews' contact with the wizarding world had faded with each passing day, with the exception of Martin's job as a clerk in Diagon Alley. He didn't know any other kids who were likely to be here today. At least some would be Muggle-born. He might have a bit of an edge on them.

Martin pushed the cart over to Peter, who had to extend both arms to reach the handle. Peter didn’t expect a real goodbye; Martin didn’t give him one. When he was twenty feet away, he turned around and waved quickly at Peter, as if he didn’t want anyone to see him do it. Peter didn’t wave back. He turned around to contemplate what looked like a solid wall in front of him.

He’d seen Martin go through the barrier a few times, and it surely couldn’t be that difficult. The problem was that Peter had absolutely no faith that it would work for him. Look at Martin – his magical education had turned out to be painful, embarassing, and almost fatal. His mother hadn’t expected to receive a letter for Peter at all. And Peter had never used a wand. The fact that this wand was Martin’s old one, from at least ten years ago, didn’t help a bit.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw a girl and her parents making their way towards him. The girl was walking in front, with quick and impatient movements. She was uncommonly pretty, even for an eleven-year-old – a halo of blond, frizzy hair stood out around her head, and she gave off a vibrant, crackling energy from even a hundred yards away. Peter was unsurprised to see that both parents looked very harried. The father was pushing a cart with a trunk on it, and the mother had several parcels in her arms.

The girl glanced around the station, then spotted Peter. Her eyes lit up, and she hurried over, leaving her parents behind. “I saw your trunk,” she panted, when she arrived. “Are you going off of Platform 9 and ¾?” When Peter nodded, she smiled almost immediately. “I thought so! I didn’t think anyone my age would be here with a trunk if they weren’t! I’m Alice Dawson. What’s your name?”

“Peter Pettigrew,” Peter said. By now, Alice’s parents had caught up. They stood looking down at Peter with slightly befuddled expressions on their faces. 

“These are my parents,” Alice said, gesturing behind her. “This is Peter. He’s going on the train with me.”

“Very good,” said Mr. Dawson vaguely. He didn’t seem to know quite what to say. After a small yet awkward pause, Alice continued on as if nothing had happened.

“I don’t know how to get onto the platform,” she confessed. “I know it’s here – my parents wrote the school and asked about it. They didn’t think my letter was real. They’re both Muggles, of course. I thought you might know what you’re doing, since you’re here by yourself.”

“Oh –“ Peter said, fumbling for words. “Well – yes – I do – mostly – yes,” he finished lamely, edging behind his trunk to put more distance between them. “You just have to believe it will work, and you run straight through the wall there.” He devoutly hoped that it was, in fact, the right wall, and that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself in front of the Dawsons. Silently, he berated himself for waiting. It was going to be much more difficult now.

“Er …” Alice said, looking faintly puzzled. “Okay. You go first, and then I’ll follow, I guess.”

“No, at the same time,” Peter said, heart hammering. He tried to smile. “That way I know you haven’t chickened out.”

Alice drew herself up. “I have to get to school somehow! I wouldn’t just wait outside with my parents all day. But I would rather go with you.” 

Her parents had finally caught on to the conversation. “This boy knows how to get to the platform, then?” Mrs. Dawson asked, with evident relief.

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” Alice replied, hugging each parent in turn with a resigned expression on her face. Once she had shooed them away, both parents shooting worried looks over their shoulders, she turned back to Peter. He rather thought they were glad to be well shot of her; he could already tell that Alice had an incredibly forceful personality, the type of person that inevitably he never got along with. They’d get onto the platform and she’d leave him, and then he’d be alone again, in a sea of people who knew better than him, who had friends, who would make friends, who could be decent wizards, who weren’t potentially …

Peter stopped that thought before it even had a chance to form. With some awkward shuffling and nervous giggling, he and Alice backed up about twenty more feet from the barrier. Alice had piled the parcels her mother had been holding on top of her trunk, which made visibility from behind her cart minimal. Peter, of course, had never hoped for any visibility at all. Better blind – he wouldn’t be able to tell when he should be running into a solid wall. “Ready?” he asked Alice. Personally, he had never been less ready in his life.

“Ready!” Alice answered, a wicked gleam lighting up her face. And then they were running in the general direction of the barrier – Peter couldn’t see anything, his hair was in his face – his shoes were still squelching – his cart almost squealed out of control – 

Then he heard what was unmistakably the sound of a train. Peter stopped. Or rather, he tried to. The cart weighed about eighty pounds more than he did, and the momentum carried him forward. Digging his (squelching) shoes into the pavement, Peter hung on and braced himself for the crash. 

It never happened. Suddenly, his cart stopped. Peter, dangling from the handle, immediately scrambled to his feet. A tall, lanky, silver-haired man was peering over the edge of the cart. 

Peter sidled around until he was in the man’s full view. He opened his mouth, fully intending to apologize for the incident, but he wasn’t the type that could blithely pull apologies out of thin air. Feeling rather like a fish (maybe he could actually be a fish, perhaps a carp; he heard they weren’t _that_ stupid, yes, he could go for that), he closed his mouth, opening to attempt again. The man beat him to it.

“Good Lord,” he said, still peering downwards, “is this really your cart?”

“Yes,” Peter stammered. “It is. I’m sorry that I ran into you –“

“It’s quite all right,” the man said. “You’re very small for your age, aren’t you? Going to be a first year?”

“Yes,” Peter said. Behind him and to his right, Alice was standing by her successfully stopped cart. She was staring, open-mouthed, at the huge red engine blowing curls of smoke into the sky. He blinked. Hadn’t it been raining outside of the real station? And why was the platform outside? He tore his attention away to focus back on the man, who was already talking again.

“So is my son,” the man said, apparently measuring Peter’s stature with his eyes now. “He’s right over there, in fact. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s Peter,” Peter said, wishing very much that he could escape. Any forced introduction would just ensure that people would take notice of him, and right now he simply wanted to escape, cart intact, and follow Alice into the train. Maybe if he tagged along with her, more people would accept him … she seemed the type that would make friends easily …

The man turned around to search the crowd, presumably for his son. Peter took the opportunity. He backed his cart up, turned around, and fairly flew through the crowds of people on the platform, making his way over to where Alice stood. It was easy enough to lose a small, cart-lugging boy in a crowd this size. Peter just hoped the man wouldn’t mind.

“Alice!” he wheezed, coming up behind her.

“It’s almost time,” Alice said bossily, without even turning around. “I was wondering where you went. We’d better get on the train now, or we won’t get a seat. I do hope there are some left.” And with that, Alice was off, Peter trailing desperately behind her. 


	2. Sorting Out

The first compartment that Alice found had a sole occupant – a small boy sitting by the window, face mulishly set into an expression that clearly read _I-don’t-care_. Peter knew that expression very well. It was the expression he inadvertently schooled his face into when something was going terribly wrong, and others could tell something was wrong, because it was obvious. Of course, the face gave away how much the boy inside that compartment really did care. This was the reason that Peter never allowed himself the luxury of showing his feelings. Self control was key – if someone else could tell exactly what was wrong, you had an immediate weakness.

From this quick assessment, Peter could tell that the boy was a lot like him. He was small for his age, but of course no one was as small as Peter himself. The boy was alone and probably had trouble making friends, and when he did make friends they would be the wrong ones. Peter knew that if he went into that compartment, he and the boy would become friends, and they would hate each other for it. And why would Alice want to go in anyway? That boy wasn’t her type. Resignedly, he turned around and began dragging his trunk outside again.

“Where are _you_ going?” Alice asked, rounding on him sharply.

“There’s already someone here,” Peter said, feeling the need to point out the obvious. He could already see this conversation was not going to go his way.

“We’re not going to find anything better,” Alice said confidently. “And the point of this is to meet new people, right? What could be better?”

Privately, Peter thought that this was a very bad, potentially socially scarring, idea. But Alice was the only person that he knew, and he was going to make sure that he had at least one friend by the time he got off of the train. It was a basic survival instinct. With that in mind and against his own better judgment, Peter dragged his trunk back into the compartment. He and Alice together were able to stow all of their things, including Alice’s multiple parcels. “What’s in these?” he inquired, catching one as Alice dropped it.

“None of your business!” she retorted fiercely, and continued to push them up on top of her trunk in the minimal space remaining.

The boy’s best answer to their intrusion was to pretend that they simply weren’t there. He darted a few quick glances when he thought that Peter wasn’t looking, and then stared out the window obstinately. But he found it rather more difficult to ignore Alice when she sat right across from him and said, cheerily, “Hi! How’s it going?”

At that exact moment, there was a shrill whistle. The train jolted to a start. Peter, thrown off guard, was thrust into the seat behind him, landing with a small grunt. The boy looked at him sideways, raising an eyebrow. This annoyed Peter so much that he said, uncharacteristically, “She said hello to you, you know.”

This display of antagonism was apparently all that was needed to start the boy talking. “I’m Duncan,” he said to Alice, pointedly ignoring Peter. “Duncan Love.”

Peter couldn’t help it. He snorted. 

Alice, also now ignoring Peter, shook Duncan Love’s hand. “Alice Dawson.” 

Peter was now a little worried about the situation. If Alice decided to take Duncan’s side (for there were most assuredly sides; Duncan Love’s name was obviously not a laughing matter), Peter would be stuck. In the middle of nowhere. With a sort-of enemy. “Peter Pettigrew,” he said, and stuck his hand right into Duncan’s personal bubble. 

To Peter’s immense relief, Duncan shook it and smiled. “Are you both first years?” he asked.

Alice took that as her cue. She was still rambling on when there was a soft knock on the compartment door, which then slid open. A chubby witch was standing outside, pushing what looked like a treasure trove of treats. “Anything off the cart, dears?” she asked, beaming at the three of them.

Alice immediately dove into her pockets, muttering about exchange rates and how much spending money she had. Duncan gave Peter a rueful grin. “I didn’t think about bringing any money on the train,” he said.

“I didn’t either,” Peter replied quickly. It wasn’t quite a lie. Even in his first year, Martin had never told Peter anything of value about Hogwarts. If someone had told Peter that he would be boxing a manticore on the train journey, Peter probably would have believed it. But even if Martin had told Peter about spending money for the train, Peter would have had no money to bring. There was no way that he would have gotten money out of Martin for something so trivial.

Alice practically skipped over to the cart, where she stood admiring the different sorts of food available. “I’ve never even heard of half of these,” she said approvingly.

“Of course you haven’t,” Duncan said, peering wistfully at the cart. “It’s all wizard stuff … and delicious … the last time I had Drooble’s, it lasted me for a week …”

Alice, realizing that the boys were both more knowledgeable than her (in this field at least) let Duncan and Peter pick some food out from the cart, handing over an unconscionable amount of money to the cheerful witch. Duncan dumped his armful of sweets onto the middle seat, and Peter followed suit. They spent an enjoyable few hours educating Alice in the ways of “real food,” as Duncan put it. 

The first interruption came as Peter finished his fifth chocolate frog. There was a loud bang from somewhere in the corridor, which was immediately followed by shouts of raucous laughter and a patter of footsteps. Of course Alice got up to look out the compartment door. She was nearly run over by two students who looked to be fifth years, holding their sides as their eyes streamed tears of laughter. “Sorry!” one gasped, grabbing the compartment door to steady himself. “Didn’t see you – nearly ran you over –“

“Oh, come on,” the other one said, taking a few steps before doubling over and laughing again. “Don’t ask – Slytherins!” he howled, stumbling off, dragging his friend behind him.

Alice stared after them, literally stunned. She looked at Duncan and Peter, who were just as bewildered. “What?” she said.

“I have no idea,” said Peter fervently.

“No,” Alice said, a trifle impatiently. “What’s a Slytherin?”

This seemed to set off Duncan. Peter hadn’t the faintest clue what a Slytherin was either, so he was grateful that Duncan was there – he didn’t want either of the others to discover that he knew so little about Hogwarts. “It’s a house,” Duncan announced, self-importantly. “One of the four ones that you can be Sorted into when you get to Hogwarts.”

“What’s the difference between all four?” Alice asked, unimpressed.

Duncan began to explain each house. Apparently, Slytherins were generally stereotyped as a bad lot – used more Dark magic than they should, were by and large hateful to the rest of the populace. Ravenclaws were brainy. (Peter immediately crossed that one off of his list of possible houses.) Gryffindors were courageous. The last house was Hufflepuff.

“What’s special about that?” Peter asked.

Duncan threw him a glance. “Nothing,” he said. “At least, I don’t think so. They like to work or something. I hear it’s just the place you get Sorted into if you don’t have anywhere else to go, though. Kind of a loser house.”

The second interruption came then, in the form of a brisk knock on the compartment door. Alice answered. Another older student, who also looked like a fifth year, was standing in the corridor looking extremely pained. Though Duncan, Peter, and Alice were still wearing the clothes they had gotten onto the train with, this student had changed into the school robes. On the left breast was a shiny badge. This obviously conferred some sort of authority, because the student said wearily, “You lot have got to change into your robes now. We’re almost to the school.”

Peter looked out the window and realized that it was rapidly becoming dark. The older student turned to leave, but, typically, Alice stopped him. “What was that bang up in the corridor earlier?” she asked.

“Bowles and Kent again,” said the student, with loathing. “Set off a Dungbomb up there. They better not bring any into the school, Filch will catch them. Stupid sort of thing to do … it’s a confined space, the smell is _everywhere_.” And with that, he was off.

Alice, Duncan, and Peter pulled out the luggage with only marginal difficulty, then all changed into their school robes. They passed the rest of the trip in relative silence, each aware of the growing anticipation as dusk faded and it became truly dark outside. Finally, the train lurched to a halt, and as compartment doors swung open all over the train, a cacophony of conversation carried along the corridor as it began to fill up with students.

Alice began to get her luggage down, juggling a few of the parcels, but Duncan stopped her. “Someone gets our trunks up to the castle for us,” he said, leading the way out into the corridor. Everyone else jostling in the corridor was twice as big as Peter – he almost lost sight of Alice and Duncan, but the crowd pushed him to one side against the wall and he was able to follow them out of the train.

Although the rain had stopped, the air was heavy with mist and there were few lights on the platform. What seemed like hundreds of carriages – but no horses – waited off to the right. Peter automatically began to go that way, but he was stopped by Duncan pulling on his sleeve. “I think we need to go over there,” he yelled, over the bustle of the crowd.

Now Peter could pick out another voice, one so deep it was impossible that it belonged to a student. “Firs’ years this way! Firs’ years!” 

The voice belonged to a giant. Peter recoiled, until he realized that giants were usually much bigger. This man could only be ten feet tall – “Only?” Peter thought wryly to himself – and was swinging a lantern from one huge beefy hand. A contingent of children was already waiting over by the man, looking extremely small and scared. More detached themselves from the crowd and headed over that way as Peter watched. He did a swift count of the kids present, realizing that the first year class was much smaller than he had expected – unless, of course, some kids had gotten lost in the general shuffle. That was very likely. 

“Firs’ years follow me!” the man boomed, and set off down a slippery, dark path. It felt safer to all of the first years to move in a sort of clumped huddle, although it did make movement very difficult. More than one person tripped, only to cause a sort of domino effect on the others around them. Peter disengaged himself from the group to get his bearings, and saw below a large, placid lake, shimmering in the darkness. Waiting at the bottom of the path was a fleet of tiny boats. And there, above the edge of the waterline, was Hogwarts. Several first years stopped to gawp, cluttering up the narrow pathway even more. The castle rose hugely from a cliff above the lake, an aesthetic jumble of stone towering above everything around it. It was bigger than anything that Peter could have possibly imagined. He had to tell himself to stop gawping, too.

“Four to a boat!” The man was getting into a boat by himself. Peter quickly caught up with Alice and Duncan, who were just getting into a boat ahead of two girls. He adroitly maneuvered his way through, clambering up into the boat before the girls could, ignoring their miffed sounds of surprise. 

And once everyone was in a boat, they moved off smoothly together, skating across the silent surface of the lake. The boat with the sole giant in it headed the tiny fleet, lantern held high above the water. As the boats neared the cliff, Peter could make out an opening. The giant’s boat was already passing through it, shaking the curtain of ivy hanging down from it.

Behind Peter, there was a loud SPLASH! and an outbreak of laughter. The giant barely glanced back. “Climb back in!” he bellowed. “The boat’ll wait for yeh!” In fact, all of the boats stopped moving, and the giant swung the lantern around to survey the other boats. One boat in the back was still rocking, and a skinny black-haired boy was clinging onto its edge. The other three inhabitants of the boat were too busy laughing to do anything above the boy, who grinned up at them good-naturedly. 

“What can they have been doing!” Alice whispered, scandalized. 

This did not bother Peter or Duncan, who were both peering around her to see what was happening. The giant’s boat was gliding back towards the rocking boat, and as the giant went by Peter could see that under a bristly beard his face was worried. “I’ve got a horse blanket in here! Yeh’ll be warm enough!”

An indeterminate amount of time passed, in which the boats swayed gently in place. Nobody seemed inclined to talk. A few kids giggled nervously, but the silence on the lake was overpowering. 

Finally, the giant’s boat returned to the front and the boats began to move again. Peter glanced back at the boat that had caused the commotion. The boy who had fallen in was wrapped so thoroughly in a large hairy blanket that only his eyes were showing. Peter looked down at the water and was thoroughly grateful that he hadn’t fallen in – the unnecessary attention and discomfort would have been too much to handle.

Once the boats had grounded on a rocky shore inside the cliff, the giant led them up another winding passageway. They found themselves right next to the castle, in front of two very large, menacing oak doors. The doors swung open.

Peter swallowed.

But all that was inside was a woman – probably a professor. Peter would have called her old, but her back was so ramrod-straight and her eyes so steely that he couldn’t quite bring himself to add that adjective. “Thank you, Hagrid,” she said. “I’ll take care of them from here.”

The giant swung about, raising one saucepan-sized hand in acknowledgement before vanishing into the darkness.

The professor stood and waited as the last of the first-years trickled into the hall. Peter’s entire house – no, _neighborhood_ – probably could have fitted into the space. Doors led off in all directions, and a large, ornate marble staircase led upwards. It was an intimidating sight, and the first-years clumped together timidly. The professor didn’t even have to wait for silence to fall. She was the type that would command it anyway, but everyone was too cowed to even think about speaking.

“I am Professor McGonagall,” she announced, when almost total silence had fallen. “Welcome to Hogwarts. In a few minutes, you’ll be sorted into your respective houses. Your house will be your home while you’re here at Hogwarts. You’ll sleep, eat, and take classes with fellow house members, and occasionally partake in friendly inter-house competition.”

There was a muttering from the back, something that sounded like “Quidditch,” and a few coughs. Professor McGonagall continued as if nothing had happened. “While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn points for your house, while misdemeanors will subtract from those points. At the end of the year, whichever house has the most points will receive the House Cup. Hopefully, you will be a credit to whatever house you end up in.”

The muted clatter that had been coming from one side of the hall suddenly intensified. Two large doors on the right end of the hall were now open, leading into an enormous room that looked like a dining hall. Peter only caught one glimpse, as the taller kids realized what was happening and craned their necks around to see.

“We’ll be going in to Sort you now,” Professor McGonagall said. “Please, follow me. No talking. Straighten yourselves up a bit.” She glanced meaningfully at the boy still wrapped in the hairy blanket, who just shrugged at her apologetically.

Although they were all curious about what they would find in the Great Hall, nobody really wanted to go first. A general press of people shoved Peter up in front, right next to McGonagall, as the tight cluster of first years scooted into the back of the hall. Four long tables dominated the room, each with its own yelling, laughing, and eating inhabitants. At the front of the room was a larger table, on a raised dais, where the teachers were sitting. But the most extraordinary feature about the room was the ceiling. It was the night sky, lit by thousands of stars, all twinkling merrily down on the student body. 

As the students at the tables realized the first years had arrived (they were easy to miss), someone brought up a three-legged stool with a hat on it. The first years stared, and then the hat began to sing.

Unfortunately, Peter missed most of this as Alice, coming to the front of the group to get a better look at the Sorting Hat, stepped on both his feet and then tripped him. Peter fell over. Alice’s help, which involved vainly pulling at the back of his robe and trying to get a better glimpse of what was happening, was not worth much. Peter scuttled to the back of the group and stood up, slightly worse for wear, just as everyone began to applaud.

“Didja hear that?” Duncan asked Peter, excitedly. He was in the very back of the group, clapping and jumping a little.

“No,” said Peter wearily. Sound tended to be muffled when you were crawling around through the hems of robes.

“Well then, you’ll see,” Duncan said, just as McGonagall called out a name.

“Adams, Trevor!”

A skinny redhead bobbed up to the front of the stool and sat down, looking utterly terrified. McGonagall placed the hat on his head, and it shouted, “Hufflepuff!”

One of the tables burst out in raucous cheering as Trevor fairly ran over, relieved. 

Peter stared. “That’s how they sort you?” he asked Duncan. “Random chance?”

“I believe it reads your mind,” Duncan replied vaguely, peering around to see the stool better.

This was a quandary. Peter didn’t think he had any of the characteristics of the houses that Duncan had described to him earlier – so he’d probably end up in Hufflepuff, like Trevor, but that was a loser house. He needed to start off with a bang, not among the losers. But if the hat could see exactly what he was thinking, then it was useless to even try. It would know that he would probably be a miserable excuse for a wizard. He couldn’t be a Ravenclaw, and he definitely didn’t want to be a Slytherin or Hufflepuff. That left only Gryffindor.

The idea of Peter actually being brave was laughable, but it was his only viable option. Maybe if he _thought_ brave when he went up to sit down …

Lost in thought, Peter had missed the last few sortings. McGonagall was calling, “Black, Sirius!”

A taller boy with a lot of shaggy black hair ambled up to the stool and sat down. The school had gone utterly silent. The hat went on his head, but this one took longer than most, which seemed to puzzle everyone, including Sirius. Finally, the brim opened wide. 

“GRYFFINDOR!”

A murmuring broke out at one of the tables on the right and the boy named Sirius, looking faintly put out, walked to the left.  

Peter’s head was spinning too much for him to take in the names. The only other person’s sorting he truly paid attention to was Alice’s. The instant the hat touched her head it shouted, “Ravenclaw!”

Alice smirked the whole way over to the Ravenclaw table.

Peter was frantically trying to figure out what house he should try for. It was just a matter of thinking smart or brave or slimy, wasn’t it? Of course he couldn’t be a Ravenclaw, no matter where Alice went. He didn’t even know how to think smart, and given the run of talent in his family it would probably be extremely hard for him to play smart for the next seven years of his life. So it had to be Gryffindor. But could he make friends with brave people? Wouldn’t the confident, strong-willed type see right through him? And why wasn’t Alice in Gryffindor? She seemed like the type of annoying person that probably was sorted there every day.

“Love, Duncan!”

Peter jolted back to reality, watching Duncan creep up to the hat stool. After a few seconds it shouted loudly, “RAVENCLAW!”

Stunned, Peter watched Duncan high-five Alice at the Ravenclaw table. He had nothing to lose by trying for any of the houses he wanted. He hadn’t made any other friends. Assuming that he could try for a house, that was. He could already imagine Duncan and Alice laughing about him being sorted into Hufflepuff.

Peter squared his shoulders as “Lupin, Remus” was sent to the Gryffindor table. He could make his own future here. He _could_.

“Pettigrew, Peter!”

Suddenly, the walk to the stool seemed infinitely long. Peter could feel his at-first confident step shrinking in size as the entire school trained its eyes on him. Wishing he could hide, he sat down, feeling the hat settle onto his head.

“Well, well,” said a voice inside his head, and Peter jumped, looking around wildly. Oh, right. The hat. He was supposed to be thinking of something – “You’re an interesting one. Quite the most interesting one I’ve had so far. What will it be for you, m’boy? You’ve got something – you’re loyal – Hufflepuff would take you, you’re very like them –“

Peter thought, “Not Hufflepuff!” as hard as he could.

“If you’re against that, then,” the hat said. “You’re out for yourself, aren’t you? You _do_ have ambition, Hufflepuff won’t do for you at all, you’re right. You might be cunning enough in the end – you could be in Slytherin, you could grow great there – but you don’t like that one either, do you? You shouldn’t have much choice in the matter, lad. But seeing as how you’re vehemently opposed … you have your own courage, in a way. Even being here is brave for you – the next seven years you’ll have to be brave and make your own way – yes, I like that one, it fits you the best – better be GRYFFINDOR!”

The last word was shouted to the entire room, and one of the long tables broke out in applause. Peter slid off the stool and wobbled over to the Gryffindor table, feeling extremely lost. Almost all the empty spaces were filled. As he walked the length of the table, he heard someone say, “Blimey, they get smaller every year, don’t they?”

The first empty space was by the blond, pale boy that had been sorted just before Peter. Peter slid into the empty space, smiling tentatively, because he was now brave. Or he had been, all along. At least, the hat thought so. The blond boy smiled tiredly back, and the larger boys around him all reached over to slap Peter on the back. It hurt.

“Gryffindor this year!” one of them remarked. “Owning the Sorting, it is! What’s your name?”

“Peter Pettigrew,” Peter said to the table.

“I’m Gabriel Trent,” the biggest boy, across from the blond boy, said back. “I’m a prefect, I’ll be showing you about later. Congratulations on making the best house in the school.”

Peter muttered something back, and luckily their attention turned away. When he looked up next, food had appeared on the tables and everyone around him was wolfing down every sort of dish imaginable. The tables groaned under the weight, and again Peter had to gape. He had never seen so much food in his entire life. He didn’t even know what some of it _was_.

“Let me help you with that,” Gabriel Trent said, dumping a large platter of meat and potatoes onto Peter’s plate. “You can’t stare at it, this lot will get to it first and probably starve you to death. Eat faster!”

Peter proceeded to stuff his face, submerging himself beneath the drone of the general conversation, becoming full and sleepy and happy, feeling like he belonged.


End file.
